


Like a Rorschach Test

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A fanfiction that I wrote back on 3rd March 2014. I love Rorschach and Sherlock immensely, and thought it a good, interesting, and exciting idea to put them together.</p><p>Not sure where I want to take it though or if it's good. Not sure if Rorschach should be from another world/universe/dimension or have come from the Watchmen comic itself for whatever reason. I chose the latter way back when I wrote it, but not so sure anymore...</p><p>If there are any spelling mistakes, I apologise in advance, or if there are any mistakes in general.</p><p>It is unfinished, I may continue this when my brain can think up a good enough plot, for now, this is all I have.</p><p>I posted this first on my DA account</p></blockquote>





	Like a Rorschach Test

As John made his way up the stairs to the flat he paused and frowned, wrinkling his nose at a lingering smell that was only getting worse the further up the stairs he went. John sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, that unclean smell meant two things, either Sherlock trying his patience conducting some kind of stupid experiment, or Sherlock had one of his homeless friends in the front room again. Steeling himself for the worst, John continued the rest of the way up and stepped through the door, peering around to the living space as he toed off his shoes and hung up his coat.

Sherlock was sat in his leather chair, fingers pressed under his chin, his gaze fixed on the figure that just so happened to be sitting in John’s chair. John grimaced with annoyance. The man in John’s chair had his back to John, his hair an array of greasy auburn curls. John winced in sympathy for his poor chair and the union jack cushion now squashed and filthy at the man’s back, and moved into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

“Coffee for me, John,” Sherlock called out from his place, hardly lifting his gaze. “Actually, make that two. One with extra sugar, three teaspoons will do it.”

John assumed the second would be for their smelly friend and shook his head, exasperated, but did as he had been asked, sighing deeply through his nose and making sure to breathe back in through his mouth. Throughout the coffee and tea making process, both men sat silently, staring at each other, and John peeked over at them with a deep frown.

John brought the two mugs of coffee over to them and tried not to let the disgust of the man’s stink show on his face. He placed Sherlock’s coffee down first and then turned to hand the second to the strange man sitting in his chair, and instantly tried to stifle his unease at the man’s appearance. He had a homely sort of face, plain, not exactly ugly but not exactly good looking either, but it was his expression, his eyes, that made John uneasy. They were dull and brown, and seemed to penetrate right through him rather than at him. John straightened his spine in reaction and the man tilted his head to one side before reaching to take the mug with dirty, purple leather clad fingers.

“John, this is…Walter,” Sherlock said, ignoring the way the man’s eyes locked back onto him with a subtle expression change that looked guarded and almost resentful. 

“Hello,” John greeted, and walked back to collect his tea and head to his room. He didn't want to be around the man anymore, the smell had seeped to the back of his throat.

“He’s from New York,” Sherlock went on, and smiled faintly when John stopped to look back. “And not our New York, according to him. Isn't that right?”

The man, Walter, took a large gulp of coffee slowly and then grunted before speaking, his voice a rumbling monotone, “Still don’t believe me?”

Sherlock leant suddenly forward, “How can I?”

“What’s going on?” John asked, moving a few steps back towards them.

“John, do you believe in the multiverse? Do you think it’s possible? That there is such a thing as parallel universes with several different versions of earth, all different, within different times, in different stages of technology evolution, and do you think it’s possible to visit them?” 

John blinked and then closed his eyes as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand and walked closer, gesturing with his tea, “What are you talking about?”

“Do you believe it?” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s…it’s hypothetical,” John replied, dropping his hand and glancing between the two men. Sherlock was staring back at the man named Walter with a look John hadn't seen before. “It all depends on the hypothesis. I mean…it’s been hypothesized in a whole range of things, like religion, astronomy, philosophy, but mostly fiction, science fiction. Look, Sherlock, what’s this all about?”

“Look at him, John. What do you see? Tell me. Use my methods, if you can, and explain to me what you see about this man.”

John exhaled and went to object but Sherlock shot him a look that shook John to the core and so John swallowed his objection and turned to regard the man. Walter was looking at him again; a blank stare that sent the hair at the nape of John’s neck erect.

“Well, okay. He’s homeless,” John began, motioning to the man’s clothes as emphasis, at a loss at whatever else there was. “You said he’s from New York? So, American…”

Sherlock made a noise of impatience and then stood up so quick and with such fluidness that John felt dizzy, “Look at his clothes more closely, John.”

John returned his gaze to Walter’s clothes. They were old, stained, tattered, well worn and used. Walter wore a brown trench coat that was buttoned and tied tightly with a sash at the waist; a cream, but grubby, scarf was at his throat and tucked neatly under the coat collar, the trousers a weak sort of greyish blue and his shoes brown and mucky. John didn't know what any of it was meant to tell him about the man and looked back at Sherlock blankly.

“First of all,” Sherlock began sharply, sweeping his hand at Walter. “The trench coat is possibly 50s, or 60s, it’s short though, more like a field jacket that became more popular during the Second World War, used by the US Army. They were made shorter to allow for more movability. It’s waterproof heavy-duty cotton gabardine drill, a good fabric. The stain on the left-hand-side is a bloodstain; it’s old, very old. The coat has been stored somewhere for a long period of time, you can see the creases where it had been folded, and the same can be said for the scarf and gloves. The trousers though, the trousers are out of place, mismatched, wouldn't you say?”

“He’s homeless,” John repeated before he massaged his temples. “Wait, can we go back a second? Bloodstain? It’s blood?”

“Yes, of course it’s blood!” Sherlock barked, irritably, and then swiftly pointed at Walter’s head. “His hair, look at his haircut. It’s been cut recently, not too recent, but recent enough to show the style. Short at the back and sides. Almost military, but it’s not, it’s not military. Where else would you have a man’s hair cut short, John?”

John shrugged slightly in response and Sherlock continued with a scowl, “You, yourself, said he was homeless, so where would a homeless man get a haircut? Sure, he could have begged on street corners and paid for one but he’d most likely spend any kind of money he’d get on food, on supplies, and when have you ever seen a cleanly shaven homeless person with trimmed hair? So, where did he get a haircut from, and most importantly, why would he have it done?”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re getting at. Just spell it out for me. What the hell is going on?” John demanded, losing his patience, keeping his eyes on both men. “What has any of this got to do with…well, anything? Jesus, Sherlock, you’re talking about bloody multiverses one moment and haircuts the next, what’s your point? What’s the point in any of this?”

Sherlock stormed toward John abruptly and loomed over him, his arm outstretched, finger pointing rigidly at Walter, “Old fashioned clothes. Vintage. The coat, the scarf, the gloves, they are part of a costume. However, there are bits missing. A hat, a suit that went beneath the coat, perhaps. The trousers, they do not go with the other clothes. “But Sherlock, why is that so important?” Because everything else compliments each other, John, he had picked them for a reason; they fit together, completed an outfit. The trousers are bland and made from a cheap material, depersonalised. Where would you find such clothing? A prison. And where would you see this type of haircut, trimmed at the back of the head, the neck, and sides? A prison. Although not just any prison, nowadays a haircut is optional, he had this done when it was mandatory.” Sherlock concluded, taking a slow breath before he spoke again. “Then there is the way he talks. As broken as it is, it still is enough to tell me about his upbringing and a poor upbringing it was, yet he is extremely intelligent. Still, I won’t go into that just yet, I presume it’s a touchy subject. No. What I will go into is the fact that this man speaks as if he just stepped out of a 80s detective novel.”

John blinked at Sherlock vacantly and then glanced at Walter who, John noticed suddenly, was standing stiffly, waiting. Sherlock turned to face Walter slowly and took several steps over to him, his arms behind his back. John watched them warily and shifted his weight, trying to process everything Sherlock had just said and why he’d said it, and if, exactly; it made any sense at all.

“Everything I've said,” Sherlock murmured, addressing John without turning back around. “Everything I see, points toward this man being correct. His clothes, his speech, his upbringing, his demeanour, his very presence, they all pinpoint toward the impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Walter countered, voice still as emotionless as ever.

“Sherlock, what--?”

“He said he’s from another world,” Sherlock cut in over John. “Another time. A time where vigilantes were a common occurrence, for a short period at any rate. He said that he was transported here by a Dr Manhattan, a man who was nothing shy of a God, a super being whose skin was a glowing blue whom could disintegrate you with a mere glance. A man that, according to Walter here, helped the US win the Vietnam War.”

**Author's Note:**

> A fanfiction that I wrote back on 3rd March 2014. I love Rorschach and Sherlock immensely, and thought it a good, interesting, and exciting idea to put them together.
> 
> Not sure where I want to take it though or if it's good. Not sure if Rorschach should be from another world/universe/dimension or have come from the Watchmen comic itself for whatever reason. I chose the latter way back when I wrote it, but not so sure anymore...
> 
> If there are any spelling mistakes, I apologise in advance, or if there are any mistakes in general.
> 
> It is unfinished, I may continue this when my brain can think up a good enough plot, for now, this is all I have.
> 
> I posted this first on my DA account


End file.
